


don't follow me (you'll end up in my arms)

by parchmints



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Sharing a Bed, it like. fades to black yknow, off screen sex scene, patching up each other's wounds, sylvain is shirtless the whole time bc he's Like That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26858092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchmints/pseuds/parchmints
Summary: In the midst of a war that seemingly never ends, Felix and Sylvain treat each other's wounds.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 143





	don't follow me (you'll end up in my arms)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angstinspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstinspace/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ONE OF MY BESTIES BRIGID!!! This is a late but it's here! I hope you like it mwah i love you. And if you're NOT brigid you should treat yourself and read their [fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstinspace/pseuds/angstinspace)!!
> 
> Art by the talented and incredible [Ang](https://twitter.com/stelllalights)! ilysm and the piece is so gorgeous 
> 
> This fic was heavily inspired by Lora's art [here](https://twitter.com/aimlessknight/status/1308814374426021892?s=20) i'm still so soft over it omg. thank you so much for letting me write a little thing about it <3
> 
> Thanks to [Emma](https://twitter.com/spacesongmp3) for betaing you literally saved my life ily
> 
> title is from "slow dancing in the dark" by joji because im insufferable 
> 
> enjoy!

_don't follow me (you'll end up in my arms)_

It’s become a thing—Felix and Sylvain patching each other up after battle. Felix started it, because of course he did. Sylvain would have to lose a limb before he actually asked a healer for help, so one day, Felix dragged him into their tent by the hand to make sure his cuts and bruises were dealt with. Once they got started though, Sylvain was the one who ended up throwing Felix in the tent over the tiniest injuries most of the time. 

It’s become a thing. 

A really weird, intimate, hard-to-deal-with _thing_. Because Sylvain’s hands are warm when he uses heal. Because Sylvain gets so close when Felix bandages his cuts. Because they can hear each other’s heartbeats too well in the quiet tent. 

It’s...overwhelming. There’s this thick tension between them now like something is about to break but Felix doesn’t know what. Maybe they’re both about to go mad or run away from the war. Who knows. 

What he does know is that Sylvain’s arm is bleeding and it’s not enough to bother Mercedes with but too much to let it go untended. 

When Felix takes him by the wrist, Sylvain moves with him easily but doesn’t say a word until they’re in the tent.

“You okay?” he asks as Felix starts shucking off bits of armor. 

“Fine,” Felix says. Because he is. He just has to stop Sylvain’s bleeding. Goddess knows he’s not squeamish, but seeing Sylvain’s blood makes him nauseous until someone finally patches him up. “Take off your armor. You hurt your arm.” 

Sylvain huffs behind him—a laugh or a sigh, Felix isn’t sure. “You should at least take me out to dinner first.” 

The joke’s half-hearted at best; the war has made them all too tired to truly be humorous, but Sylvain does what he can. He shares stories with Ashe, teases Ingrid, and tries to pull a smile from the boar whenever he can. Though, with Dimitri, he’s lucky if he just gets a glint from his eye that suggests their old friend is still in there somewhere. 

With Felix, he flirts. Nothing as egregious as before the war started, but he makes silly little comments to get a rise out of Felix, to get them to banter like they used to. Felix can see the tension in Sylvain’s shoulders dissolve when he snaps back and Felix feels some of his worries lighten too. 

“You’re not that expensive of a date,” Felix says, pulling off the last of his armor so he’s down to the black tunic that covers his neck but leaves his arms bare. 

Sylvain laughs—not the bright, happy sound Felix remembers, but a sound too weighted down to be considered true amusement. But underneath all the weariness of war, Felix can hear a flickering of it, enough to let him know that part of Sylvain isn’t dead. Not yet. 

There’s the _clang_ of Sylvain’s heavy armor dropping to the ground and, _of course,_ he’s made himself topless. 

Felix rolls his eyes. “See? You’re already out of your clothes.” He tuts. “Didn’t even give me enough time to get us an appetizer.”

“Maybe I’m the kind of man who likes to eat his dessert first,” Sylvain says as he rolls his (considerable) shoulders and winks at Felix. 

And because Felix is still too stupidly affected by his best friend, he looks away and blushes. “Disgusting.” 

“I don’t know, it can really help work up an appetite—” 

“Stop,” Felix says, grabbing some gauze from his supply bag. “C’mon, your arm is going to bleed all over the bedrolls.” 

“It’s not that bad,” Sylvain says, inspecting it. It’s true, the cut isn’t deep and the bleeding has slowed but that doesn’t make Felix any less anxious to heal it. 

They sit in the center of the tent, Sylvain scooching himself close so Felix can heal him, though it feels like he’s being mocked instead. Does Sylvain know what this proximity does to him? Does he know how often Felix can’t sleep because he can hear Sylvain’s breathing? Does he know every time Felix touches him it’s like shackles have been taken off his lungs and he can finally _breathe_?

No. He doesn’t know. Felix has made it his job to make sure he doesn’t know. 

Sylvain extends his injured arm, the cut slicing down the inside of his forearm. Felix wants to tell him to be more careful, but there’s no point. When it comes to this war, Sylvain _is_ being careful if this is the worst of it. 

Felix grabs him by the wrist and takes a deep breath, summoning his magic. White magic is different than the dark magic he has a knack for—it’s not tied to logic or reason, but faith and piety. Felix has little of either. 

But for Sylvain, he makes it work. He prays to the Goddess, prays to make this person’s pain go away. 

_Please,_ he thinks. _Please heal him. Please don’t ever take him from me._

He gets lost in his prayer, his magic radiating from his hand and slowly stitching Sylvain’s wound. He’s so focused, he almost doesn’t realize when Sylvain leans in close enough that Felix can feel his breath at his ear. 

“Your magic is surprisingly gentle, y’know that?” Sylvain says, his voice low. “It’s like I’m putting my arm in the calm end of a river.” 

A hard lump forms in Felix’s chest. Why is Sylvain doing this? Must he always be _so_ close and say such...such indulgent things? It hurts. Worse than any battle wound he’s ever received. 

“Tch. Did you lose that much blood?” Felix says, brushing it off like he always does, but Sylvain’s _still_ so close and it’s making it hard to breathe. 

“I’m serious,” Sylvain says. 

And then, softly, Sylvain brushes his knuckles at Felix’s temple, tangling in the hair there. Felix’s insides buzz with electricity like he’s about to be hit by an enemy’s Thoron. He needs to get away, he needs to finish patching up this wound before he loses himself. 

“Fe?” Sylvain’s voice is so hushed, so barely there that even with their close proximity, Felix might have missed it. 

“What?” 

“Can I kiss you?” 

As soon as Sylvain asks, the wound shuts and Felix’s magic fades. Simultaneously, Felix’s heart swells so much his chest aches. He looks up for the first time since they started, expecting some sort of mischievous expression, some sort of look that says “it’s been months and you’re a warm body.” 

But he doesn’t. All he sees is Sylvain—a hair’s breadth away and his expression open, vulnerable. He looks like he could die depending on Felix’s answer. 

“Why?” Felix breathes because he has to know. He can’t be like the others. 

Sylvain’s hand flattens on the side of Felix’s face and his thumb swipes across the skin beneath his eye. “We could die tomorrow.” 

“We’ve been at war for years. What makes today different?” 

“I think I reached my limit. I had to ask. At least once,” Sylvain says and it’s so achingly sad, so defeated, Felix realizes he’s taken his questions as a long-winded rejection. 

Felix _should_ reject the idea. His feelings for Sylvain are too much, run too deep for him to get cast aside like all those other women and men he’s left in his wake. 

But—

But Sylvain’s palm feels so good on his cheek and Felix has been dreaming of kissing Sylvain since he was fourteen and the war’s been going on for so long and he just wants to feel something that isn’t blood and weapons and pain and they _could_ die tomorrow and—

He squeezes Sylvain’s wrist, pulls him just a little closer. It’s a tiny motion, but it’s like he’s outed himself with this one small gesture. Sylvain’s eyes widen just enough to show his surprise but then they soften and he angles his head a fraction. It’s all Felix needs to know that the message was received, that this is happening. 

_Is this really happening?_

Sylvain’s so close. Sylvain’s going to kiss him. It’s more terrifying than every battle he’s ever fought combined. Felix doesn’t do _this_ —he trains and he fights and he pushes people away before they can ever get this close. There’s no logic to it. He’s been fighting a war since he was seventeen—he’s slaughtered soldiers, seen his own organs spill outside his body, felt death hang in the air around him like a miasma—but he’s afraid of a kiss. 

And then Sylvain does it. It’s like a whisper—featherlight and barely there, but it collapses Felix’s infrastructure. He presses back, holding too tightly to Sylvain’s wrist, trying to hold on so he doesn’t float away. 

Sylvain’s lips move and Felix follows him at an achingly slow but steady pace. This isn’t how he thought Sylvain would kiss. He thought he’d be more of a scoundrel about it: lewd and heavy, like he’s taking something from you. Or that’s how he imagined he kissed the others, how it looked when Felix accidentally caught him in the arms of some girl. 

But this is _gentle_. Sweet. The thought turns Felix’s torso into an ocean, the waves crashing and crashing and crashing against the shores of his chest. His hand moves from Sylvain’s wrist over to his smooth biceps and to the patch of skin where his shoulder meets his neck, then down to his broad chest. With his now free hand, Sylvain’s fingers curl into the hair at the nape of Felix’s neck, bringing him a little closer, making the kiss a little deeper. 

Felix moves with him, doing his best to keep up so Sylvain won’t catch on he’s not particularly _skilled_ at this. If Sylvain knows, he doesn’t show it; he just keeps kissing Felix with a light but sure touch. 

When Sylvain pulls away, he hesitates before placing another kiss at the corner of Felix’s mouth, then tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. 

“Your turn,” Sylvain says, his voice a little lower than usual. 

Felix blinks at him. “For what?” 

“You’re injured.” 

“I—” Felix shakes his head. He can’t keep up with Sylvain—first he wants to make out and now he’s playing healer? “I’m fine.” 

“I _saw_ you get the blunt end of a lance.”

“It’s not enough to—” 

Sylvain promptly pokes his side and Felix hisses through his teeth. 

“See?” Sylvain says. Felix doesn’t miss the hint of mischief there. 

He sneers at him. “That _hurt_.” 

“C’mon,” Sylvain says, pulling at the end of Felix’s tunic. “Let me take care of you.” 

He doesn’t say it in any sort of special way, but a bed of flame still trails down Felix’s spine. He doesn’t have the strength to oppose so he lets Sylvain pull up his tunic and rest his hand over a bruise that looks a lot nastier than Felix thought it would. 

Sylvain sighs then tuts. “You always get so mad at me for not taking care of myself and yet…” 

“You’re different,” Felix says and then instantly regrets it. He must still be drunk on the kiss otherwise he’d never say something like that. 

Sylvain knows it too because he stiffens for a moment before a lazy smile slides onto his face. “Mm? Different, huh?” 

“I just meant—” Felix starts, turning his face away, “you don’t tell people when you’re bleeding out and you never train. It’s not the same.” 

Sylvain answers with a small laugh and then chants the prayer to activate the magic in his palm. Felix immediately relaxes into it, appreciating the warm relief as he leans back on his hands. He hadn’t realized how much the injury had been bothering him. 

“Feel good?” Sylvain says, studying Felix’s face. He wishes he wouldn’t look at him like that; Felix might kiss him again. And are they...really not going to talk about that? That would suit Felix just fine since he’d really rather not hear how inconsequential it was to Sylvain. No, he’s content to repeat the memory in his mind whenever he needs it and to keep it close and untainted by rejection. 

“‘S’nice,” Felix says, feeling lazy and warm. It _would_ be so nice to lean forward again, touch him again, and whisper _you are mine_ —no, he’s running away with himself. They’re both lonely and tired and starved for a little affection. He can’t get his hopes up. He can’t want more. But it’s so damn hard when Sylvain is touching him and looking at him and _caring_ for him. Goddess, Felix wants to be reckless. 

“What’s it like?” Sylvain says, checking Felix’s wound. “My magic?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Like yours is really cool, kind of sharp and bracing but you can feel it working. Mercie’s is like stretching your muscles after getting up in the morning. I was just kinda curious what mine felt like.” Sylvain watches him, waiting for an answer. Felix gets the impression that this isn’t about Sylvain’s magic, but he has no idea what else it could be about. 

Felix stops for a moment and searches for an honest answer. He’s not exactly sure what Sylvain wants or needs to hear, but he’s pretty sure he won’t get away with a lie. 

“Well, it’s...warm.” 

“Warm?” Sylvain says, tilting his head.

“It’s like you just warmed your hands by the fire and put them on my skin,” Felix says, nervous suddenly. “But, I don’t know, more than that. It’s like you’re pouring your whole self into it.” And for some reason, Felix puts his own hand over Sylvain’s and watches the green light flicker out from beneath his palm. He can’t bring himself to move his hand because it feels too right to touch Sylvain right now, too easy to indulge in this temptation. 

“Fe…” Sylvain says, not moving his hand away. He doesn’t finish the train of thought, just looks Felix in the eyes. And there’s no hope for him. There’s no way he’s going to be able to keep this flood at bay anymore when Sylvain’s eyes say _more more more_ and Felix’s thudding pulse is replying _yes yes yes._

They surge toward each other, this time more heated, urgent. The hand that was once healing Felix moves underneath the tunic until he finally gets the hint Sylvain wants it off. They break for a moment and Felix tears the shirt off and throws it to the side. They crash together again and Felix wraps his arms around Sylvain’s neck as Sylvain clings to the expanse of his back as they kiss and kiss and kiss. Deeper, farther. Felix straddles Sylvain’s lap, their chests pressed together, and there’s something so damn _satisfying_ about feeling Sylvain’s skin against his. Everything about Sylvain is warm—his magic, his touch, the way he says Felix’s name as Felix kisses up the column of his throat.

It’s frenetic and wild, the way they’re moving. Sylvain’s fingers dig into the flesh of Felix’s hips while Felix cradles Sylvain’s face with his hands, pressing more searing kisses against his lips. Madly, he thinks about how much he’s fucked up: there’s no way Sylvain won’t be able to tell how deep Felix’s feelings go with the way he’s clinging to him, cherishing this brief respite from the shackles of his own doubt. This is too intimate to be casual. 

Then Sylvain shifts underneath him, his arm wrapping around Felix’s lower back and almost lifting him. Felix wraps his legs around his torso and lets Sylvain lay him down on the bed rolls. Sylvain hovers over him, his arms caging Felix on either side of his head, and it’s then that he realizes what Sylvain is implying they do next. 

Felix’s breath catches in his throat, a shaky, shuddering thing. He doesn’t think he’s breathed in the last five minutes if the hoarseness of his vocal cords is anything to go by. 

Sylvain takes him in, looking at him like he’s—Felix doesn’t know what. No one’s ever looked at him like this before. It might kill Felix if he keeps it up. 

“Fe?” Sylvain says, his voice butter and honey. “Is this okay?” 

Felix is pretty sure he’s trembling and his heart is doing its best to send him into cardiac arrest at the ripe old age of twenty-two. He’s nervous. Ridiculously nervous. But he also doesn’t want to cut this moment short, he doesn’t want to go to sleep and wake up to the war again. They could die tomorrow. _They could die tomorrow._

Sylvain watches and patiently waits for an answer and that’s when Felix takes him in. His hair is ruffled and disorderly from where Felix has been pulling at it, his broad chest sheens with sweat, and his face is redder than his hair. More than that, he looks nervous like this is scary for him too, but why would it? Sylvain knows what he’s doing. 

_What if this means just as much to him as it does to me?_

It’s that thought that melts away any lingering doubts. He has no reason to be nervous because this is Sylvain. _Sylvain_. He’s going to take care of him, he’ll stop if Felix asks to stop. 

Felix ghosts his fingertips over Sylvain’s jaw, then nods. “More than okay.” 

And Sylvain kisses him. 

After, when the oil in the lamps have run out and their bed rolls are pressed together, Sylvain holds Felix close under the covers. It’s the most relaxed Felix has felt in...Goddess, maybe a decade. It’s hard not to feel safe when you’re encircled in arms as thick as Sylvain’s. 

He should sleep, he knows he should, but he doesn’t want morning to come. This is always the danger of being with Sylvain—it’s something he wants even more than the glory of battle and Faergus needs him to keep his priorities straight. 

_But_ , his mind taunts. _But I want to stay here._

It’s enough to make him cry. What has he done? How can he go back to the battlefield now and keep risking his life when deserting with Sylvain would be so easy? They could just jump on their horses and _go_. 

“Felix?” The arms around him tense and Sylvain’s breathing has broken out of it’s sleeping rhythm. 

“Go back to sleep,” Felix whispers. 

“Mmf.” Sylvain squeezes his middle, silently asking Felix to face him. Felix sighs and then does, once again struck by the outline of Sylvain’s face next to him. “Having trouble sleeping?” 

“No. Just thinking,” Felix says. 

Sylvain hums and then moves a stray lock from Felix’s face behind his ear. “Tell me.” 

“It’s nothing.” 

Sylvain huffs. “I know you better than that. C’mon, what is it?” 

If it were any other moment, if they were anywhere else than in their current position, tucked so close the tip of their noses could touch, Felix would shut him down and shut him out. But as it is, he’s stupid and weak and he says it all. “We’re in a war.” 

“We are,” Sylvain says, enough of a lilt in his voice that Felix _knows_ he’s holding back a joke. 

“I think we made things complicated,” Felix says, the words ripping from him. 

Sylvain nods and keeps running his hand through Felix’s hair. “Maybe. I think it was already complicated, though. It’s not like I’m going to fight differently because of this.” 

A spear pierces Felix’s heart. So it _was_ casual to him. “Not at all?”

“Well, I might pick up that _thing_ you keep nagging me about. What was it again? Training?” Sylvain says, pressing a kiss to Felix’s brow. “I want to actually stick around if you—if this is...something you want?” 

The spear dislodges itself from Felix’s chest, threatening to collapse his lungs. Maybe this stupid unrequited crush isn’t so unrequited after all. 

“I...want it,” he breathes and somehow, his hand has found its way into Sylvain’s free one. Felix can’t see Sylvain’s face well in the dark tent but he can tell he’s smiling. Sylvain kisses him sweetly and Felix kisses him back, overwhelmed all over again. 

With his face burning, Felix buries his head into Sylvain’s bare shoulder. 

“I don’t want it to be tomorrow,” he whispers, breathing Sylvain in, trying to commit this night to memory. 

“One day, the war will be over,” Sylvain says, gently squeezing Felix even closer to him. “Until then, you keep up your end of the promise and I’ll keep mine.” 

Felix smiles. It’s incredible how easily Sylvain can clear the anxious thoughts plaguing him. Yes, there’s a war and it’s a rough one, but he and Sylvain are together and they made an oath that he doesn’t plan on breaking. It’ll be hard but maybe it’ll be a little easier knowing that there’s a future on the other side of it...a future Sylvain wants to be a part of. 

Felix pulls Sylvain into another kiss. They have war meetings in the morning and a whole war to win after that, but until then, they can have this night for a little longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRIGID I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!
> 
> thanks in advance for any comment and kudos to anyone reading MWAH
> 
> also, ao3 kind of killed the quality of the art so please see it in all it's glory [here](https://twitter.com/stelllalights/status/1313886697835368449s) and RT!!
> 
> follow me on twitter and be my friend i want more sylvix moots!! please!!! 
> 
> Links: [Tumblr](http://parchmints.tumblr.com/) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/parchmints) | [my other fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchmints/works)


End file.
